


just enough for two in here

by singmyheart



Series: let me be the place that you hide [9]
Category: Hamilton - Miranda (Broadway Cast) RPF
Genre: Clothed Sex, F/M, I think the 'cunnilingus' and 'dirty talk' tags are probably redundant at this point, Objectification, Possessive Behavior, Valentine's Day, minor foot stuff
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-05-20
Updated: 2017-05-20
Packaged: 2018-11-02 18:41:30
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,016
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10950453
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/singmyheart/pseuds/singmyheart
Summary: The great anti-Valentine’s festival of 2017 is being held at an Irish pub. Wouldn't have been his first choice, but then he can't think of anything less sexy than dozens of bitter strangers all drinking Guinness, so. Points for commitment to theme, if nothing else.





	just enough for two in here

**Author's Note:**

  * For [queenjaneapprox](https://archiveofourown.org/users/queenjaneapprox/gifts).



 

 

 

In a shocking twist, Valentine's day this year seems poised to be nothing special. You'd think, having dated for most of his adult life, he'd have gotten the hang of the occasion — and yet. While he'd stopped buying into the whole “women are unpredictable and mysterious creatures who never say what they mean” thing sometime in his twenties, and as a native New Yorker is immune to the Fear Of Missing Out that other people claim is endemic to Manhattan, Lin still has to contend every year with that feeling that whatever he chooses to do for the day is the Wrong Thing. When he’s single, it’s that he should have a date (despite the fact that this likely means taking a near-stranger out to a crowded restaurant to order off a jacked-up prix-fixe menu and make small talk) and when he’s not, it’s that he should make some grand romantic gesture out of going to get gelato, or something.

This year, a college friend of Pippa’s is throwing some kind of anti-Valentine’s shindig and she'd agreed to go (she's so polite) which means Lin’s going. It'll almost definitely be the exact same cringey self-conscious bullshit it's claiming to avoid, but whatever. It's one night. And it might end up being actually kind of good — not super fun, necessarily, but good for the two of them.

Things have been a little weird since she got back from California — not even bad weird, just off. Like, his birthday. It’d been quiet: she'd been back in LA for a minute, so Chris and Kate took him out, drinks and dinner. They’d graciously let him deflect the old familiar panic regarding the relentless forward march of time with stupid jokes, and footed his bill, and at the end of the evening both kissed him soundly on the mouth, friendly, and sent him home.

He'd hunkered down in bed and called Pippa, and she spilled honey and venom in his ear from three thousand miles away. Lying there afterward sticky and panting he’d missed her, but there was an end in sight once again, like there had been in the fall. It had hit him how close he had come to never having this again, and he loved her in that second, hot and raw and selfish, and said so. He's embarrassed by that now, in the way you only ever are about moments of naked honesty after the fact — but there are worse things, he supposes.

Lin's slept with most of the friends he’s made in the last fifteen years or so, and his sister’s friends to boot. He’s talked old college classmates off over the phone just to hear them come, weathered exactly two pregnancy scares (zero pregnancies, thank God) and, on one memorable occasion which he still looks back on fondly, had his entire hand inside of someone. That stuff, he can do: the friends-with-benefits thing, the one-night-stand thing, the I'm-trying-to-piss-off-an-ex thing, the meet-the-parents thing, he can do without breaking a sweat. This, though — the reunion, the settling back on one side of an ampersand, Lin-and-Pip; the reacquainting himself with having her in his space again after so long an absence, this is all new to him.

 

  
  
The great anti-Valentine’s festival of 2017 is being held at an Irish pub. Wouldn't have been his first choice, but then he can't think of anything less sexy than dozens of bitter strangers all drinking Guinness, so. Points for commitment to theme, if nothing else. It's also surprisingly well-attended; apparently a fucking lot of people have a hard-on for disliking this particular excuse for a holiday. “Quick,” Pippa mutters in his ear before they've been there an hour. “What's a not-completely-obvious way to convey ‘get me the fuck out of this conversation immediately’? Can we have some kind of signal?”

“Just yell, like, _Jericho_ , and I'll grab you and we can make a break for it,” Lin suggests. “Last resort, I've got cyanide capsules in my pocket.” She chuckles, squeezes his hand.

Signal notwithstanding, she gets dragged into some long-winded discussion; she's making apologetic faces at him now from across the room. He’s fine, doesn’t really know anyone here, but it shouldn’t be too hard to make nice for a while. Ends up at the bar nursing a g&t and resisting the urge to check Twitter (‘cause he's not about to be that asshole).

“Blink twice if you want me to mercy-kill you.”

He looks up to see some tiny blonde woman he definitely doesn't recognize, catches himself flipping through his mental Rolodex for a minute anyway trying to place her before he remembers there’s no point. Sly smile on her face. “That obvious, huh?” he says, and she laughs, rolls her eyes.

“These things are the fucking worst. Like, there's a reason I haven't seen _any_ of these people since graduation, you know?”

Lin demonstrably can't relate to this sentiment, but he nods anyway. “Tell me about it.”

 

 

Some time later, Pippa still hasn't surfaced, and this woman — he's already forgotten her name, so apparently he's _that_ asshole — is clearly into him. Touching his arm, brushing her hair off her neck. He thinks about saying something, but it hasn’t come up and nothing’s worse than being the _thanks for your interest,_ _but I have a girlfriend_ guy, so. When she turns to order another drink he gets the sense he's being watched; scans the packed room to find Pip, and she's smirking. While he's watching her she fires off a text; his phone dings a second later. _What the hell do you think you're doing_

Well, okay. He realizes he's fidgeting absently with the gold chain around his neck, must have been for a while. He’s nothing if not a fearless improviser, and so he makes the decision in a second: slips his phone back into his pocket, deliberately, without answering. Catches her eye and shrugs, and her eyebrows shoot up, but his new friend is asking him something, so — he turns a fraction, gives Pippa his back in a move he knows is slight but that she can't miss.

He's going to pay for it later, he suspects, which he's looking forward to.

After a while more of this, relatively easy getting-to-know-you kind of stuff, his new friend says, “So. What’s a nice guy like you doing in a place like this?” Cocktail skewer between her teeth. He doesn’t miss it, exactly, the whole stranger-in-a-bar routine, but this is kind of fun. Probably has more to do with what’s sure to come when he gets home than anything, which he feels _kind_ of bad about, but not enough to stop.

On cue, Pippa materializes at his side, having evidently freed herself from whatever torture chamber she’s been in. “Lauren, oh my god,” she says, sounding so genuinely surprised that she must be thinly veiling outright loathing.

“Pippa! Holy shit, I had no idea you were here! It’s been _forever,_ ” gushes Lauren (that’s right, Lauren) and they hug, kiss each other on the cheek in the stilted kind of way Lin’s never actually seen women do in real life and had until now figured was a grating chick-flick cliche. Well. You learn something new every day.

“I see you’ve met Lin-Manuel,” Pippa says cheerfully and takes hold of his arm, tucks her hand into the crook of his elbow.

“Were your ears burning?” he asks, and he can feel Lauren’s eyes on them, trying to clock the situation. “I was just about to tell Lauren here that you dragged me to this thing and then threw me to the wolves. I was _this_ close to forming some kind of search party.”

Pippa rolls her eyes at Lauren, like, _ugh, men._ “Don’t be rude, you’ve been in perfectly capable hands. Clearly.”

He hides a grin behind his glass, poorly. “Something like that.”

“Listen, I hate to drag him off…” She’s apologetic, the picture of sincerity; a hand on Lauren’s forearm. “But we actually should call it a night. This one’s got an early day tomorrow, and he needs his beauty sleep, you know.” (This is a blatant lie, not that he cares.)

“Absolutely,” Lauren says, still looking faintly confused. “So nice to see you — and nice meeting you, Lin, really.”

“Pleasure’s mine.”

“We should definitely have coffee or something, soon, right?”

“Definitely,” Pippa agrees emphatically, and as she leads him away mutters in his ear, flat, “I fucking hate her.” After another interminable few minutes of similar conversations with other people they’re on their way out at last.

The subway is packed as ever; they’re pressed right together, chest to chest, all the way to her place. Not talking much. Back out on the street the cold evening air stings his bare hands, bracing.

Quiet in the elevator too, up to her floor, and once they’re inside she goes ahead of him down the hall and into the bathroom, leaving him to follow and feel a little like a dog nipping at her ankles. He leans against the doorframe and watches her, with her back to him, drop her clutch on the counter, take her earrings out. Looks up and says to the Lin reflected in the mirror, “That was cute, back there.”

“I was just being nice,” he says, shrugs. All innocence, outrageous in its transparency.

“Were you,” she says evenly. She's got on this blue dress he's never seen her wear, low neckline. Unclasps the delicate silver bracelet from her wrist and sets it down, and then her rings, one at a time.

Drawing it out a little: “Mmhm.”

He’s surprised when she wheels on him, presses him back against the doorframe with a satisfying little thud, fingers on his chest. His top button’s already undone so she slips the second one free, brushes just under the edge of his shirt to feel the chain, warm from sitting against his skin.  A long moment of silence, thrumming tension; he’s practically vibrating. In her heels she’s a little bit taller than him, which is novel. They’re so close that her lips brush his when she speaks, barely above a whisper. “Nice, huh.”

He assumes, and tries to kiss her, and she nudges him back an inch.

“Bedroom,” she murmurs. “Go.”

He tries not to look like he’s tripping over himself to do as he’s told, and isn’t sure he succeeds. She makes him wait long enough to get antsy (which isn’t actually that long), wonder if he should strip, get on the bed, what — and she comes in, looks him up and down, biting her lip to cover the smirk. “Why are you still on your feet, Lin?” Cocks her head a little like she’s confused, like it’s a real question.

So he hits the carpet, on his knees.

She comes to sit on the edge of the bed, in front of him, and rests the tip of her high heel on his thigh, digs in just enough to ignite a small, solid burst of pain. Enough for him to get the message. He fumbles for the zip at her ankle and eases it off her foot, and does the same with the other. He wonders if she’s got a plan, here.

“I can’t leave you alone for a second, can I,” she muses, thoughtful.

“Well, I don’t know that that’s true…”

“No? Look what happens when I do. You tell her you were with me?”

“I was _about_ to,” he points out, “when you came over and saved me the trouble. I’ve never seen your face do that, by the way, I thought you were gonna cut her —”

She bursts out laughing at that (good, he thinks). “Can you not,” she says, sighing, “make me laugh while I’m trying to ruin you. You’re so rude. Honestly.”

“Sorry,” he says, though he isn’t at all, and attempts to school his face into a semi-contrite expression. “Serious business. Please, commence with the ruining.”

The smile hasn’t faded from her face as she leans down and actually taps his jaw shut with a finger, gently; his teeth click. “Hush.” Considers him for another long moment, brings her foot up to rest on his shoulder and gives him a look like, _go on._ So he reaches up, skims up her calf, thigh — assumes she’s wearing tights but then he hits bare skin and a strap. _God._ She tugs her skirt up to show him the stockings and garter belt, and he has to close his eyes for a second just so his head doesn’t explode. Then he carefully unhooks the stockings one at a time and eases them down her legs and off, whisper-soft. The belt and panties follow and she watches him do it, cool, or playing at it. Without quite knowing why he bends to drop a kiss on each of her newly bared ankles, the tops of her feet, and straightens back up.

“Were you thinking about this?” she asks him, soft. Draws a fingertip over his jaw, just the edge of her nail making itself known. He’s about to say something dumb like _I'm never not thinking about this_ but she goes on. “All evening, hoping I’d notice you letting someone else hang all over you? You need reminding who you’re coming home with, babe?”

“Yes,” he says. Cocky. Eyebrows. Opens for the brush of her fingers on his lip and she pushes in, curls them against his tongue. He can taste her nail polish, faint trace of vanilla from her lotion.

“I was watching you, here and there. She’s less subtle than you are — she practically had her tongue down your throat. And she was looking at your mouth, like, the whole time, did you notice?” He had noticed (she’s not the first), not that he can answer. Pippa draws her fingers out of his mouth and then she fucking slaps him across the face. Hard enough to knock him back on his heels, good sharp sting, his own saliva warm on his cheek. He hadn’t thought he was in the mood for that until about two seconds ago and, well, now he definitely is. _Fuck._ He wants to ask for another, on the other side, but suspects that means he won’t get it. “Not that I blame her,” she goes on like nothing’s happened, and it takes him a second to remember what she’s talking about. “You do know what to do with it, when it’s not getting you in trouble.” Spreads her legs a little, and there’s still an edge to that smile. “I should’ve just gotten you on your knees right there, hm? So everyone knew. So you’d remember.”

“You could have,” he murmurs — and this, he knows; this still cuts him right open every time.

“I know I could have.” She’s taunting him, a little, amused. “You’re so easy, you know that? Could’ve just used your mouth in front of everyone, left you hard, and you’d have thanked me.” Her knees fall open a little more and he takes this for the invitation it is, leans in to kiss the inside of her knee, her thigh, and higher.

“Missed this,” he says quietly, “while you were gone. Missed you.” It’s nothing he hasn’t already said, but he feels suddenly like he needs her to know. She sighs, falls back on her elbows. “Missed making you come… missed that face —  yeah, that one.” She huffs a laugh as he parts her lips with a finger, soft, wet and warm. Thatch of hair a little damp with her arousal and coarse against his hand; he breathes her in, heavy familiar scent. Replaces hand with tongue, one long slow lick up to her clit and she gasps, ragged. “Missed your cunt,” he admits, and she threads her fingers into his hair.

She tastes different, even, than a few months ago, but he can still clock every one of her reactions, every sensitive spot, every twitch and curse. Still knocks him out. Hot wet press of her cunt around two of his fingers now and these little hitching rolls of her hips up toward his tongue. Sucks carefully on her clit and her shoulders hit the mattress, both hands in his hair, clutching restlessly at his collar, the back of his shirt.

(He thinks distantly of the first time he'd done this, how uncomfortable she'd been, how hard a time she had just talking about it. They'd gotten as far as her straddling his chest before she'd admitted her exes hadn't liked it, really, and she'd never been able to come from it. "Pip," he'd said, watched her shiver as he drew his fingers up her thigh and followed with his mouth, kissed an idle wandering path over her skin. "Do you understand that this is a tragedy. _Honestly._ Men these days." Laying it on a little thick. Kissed again and stayed there when she sighed, shaky; lips and tongue and the barest of teeth on the inside of her thigh for a minute until she breathed out a curse, a quiet _fuck._  "C'mere," he'd said, nudged her forward. "Sit on my face, babe, c'mon — does the term 'mustache ride' still apply if I don't technically have a mustache, d'you think?" She’d laughed then, too, which was what he’d wanted. And she stayed in her head for a while but eventually eased into it, came hard, one hand in his hair and her other wrist in her mouth to choke off the moan.)

No such reticence now, with both hands keeping him right where she wants, and he loves this, always has. Focus narrowed down to one thing, heat and damp, obscene wet sound that seems loud to his ears, everything else faraway. He’s floating some but she’s close and that snaps him back, her voice, asking breathlessly if this wasn’t what he’d wanted, to get on his knees and remind her why she keeps him around. He manages a noise to approximate a yes and her fingers twist painfully tight in the roots of his hair as she comes, sweet slick rush, overwhelming.

She jerks back a little when it’s too much, oversensitive, like always, panting at the ceiling. He sits back on his heels, waits; he’s so hard it almost hurts, and his jeans are an unforgiving prison. She snaps her wrist at him, _come here,_ grabs blindly at his shirt as he stands to yank him down on top of her. Kisses him hard, licking her taste out of his mouth. Disoriented by her sudden fierceness he’s not expecting it when she flips them over, straddles his hips. Lipstick smeared across her cheek, her dress twisted up around her waist, she regards him, a little imperiously. Divests him of his belt quickly, almost businesslike, and tugs at his jeans and boxers only enough to get his cock out; he can’t help the sigh of relief that provokes. She wraps a hand around his cock, palms the head, playing with him, and says, “You haven’t earned this.” Like she’s indulging him.

“I know,” he murmurs.

“Don’t come,” she says, soft, and that’s all the warning he gets before she shifts to take him inside her, sinks down slow, _fuck._ Takes a minute to find a rhythm that works for her and as she settles into it he has the wild half-baked thought that she deserves this, to be disheveled and gasping and taking him absolutely to pieces underneath her, to feel this good always. He doesn’t say as much but her nails bite into his thigh and she says, like she knows, “Don’t _talk,_ Lin.” She’s smiling around it, the detached act she’s been putting on falling away. “Get yourself in trouble when you talk.”

“If this is what I get when I do,” he points out, and she laughs, cuts him off with another messy, bruising kiss, her hair falling around them both like a curtain. Doesn’t stop him grabbing at her ass and picks up her pace a little, these short sharp rolls of her hips that feel fucking incredible; before long he’s close and telling her so. “Fuck, honey, please —”

“Not yet,” she interrupts, firmly, “little longer.” Her mouth on his neck, tongue and he’s cruising for teeth and she gives them, brief sweet flash of pain amid the haze. She’s close too, though, her own fingers on her clit and her sounds climbing steadily in pitch; he tries desperately to think of unsexy things, holding out. She catches his mouth again, sloppy, only half a kiss, the filth she’s talking caught between them: “You’re so fucking easy. God, I could just keep you here, couldn’t I, to play with when I need — _fuck,_ babe — and you’d love it. Warm body just for me.”

 _Christ._ “Yes,” he tells her, all pretense gone. “Yeah, I would. Fuck, yes, yeah — come on —” Not giving half a thought to what he’s saying and it doesn’t matter; she’s coming, clenching around him hot and tight and perfect.

He’s dimly pleased to note that she’s shaky as she climbs off of him, kind of collapses onto her side, one leg slung over both of his. Breathes. And, okay, this is cute and all but he’s been on the edge for about a decade and he really fucking wants to come, so. “Pip,” he says, and even that sounds desperate, wrecked. “Please…”

Blessedly, she takes pity on him, reaches to stroke him off and tucks her face back into the crook of his neck. Teeth. “Slut,” she says into his skin, quiet but clear, and fond. This underneath the usual tenor spilling out of his mouth in a rush.

“Fuck, _fuck,_ please, babe — I’m —” And the words die in his throat all of a sudden; he pushes up into her grip and lets go. Burning up, feverishly hot, stars exploding behind his eyelids.

He’s almost surprised to come back to earth, shivery and sensitive, sweating. The familiar shapes of her bedroom take a minute to arrange themselves, the feeling of her mouth wandering idly over his neck, the damp spot on his shirt. “You broke me,” he manages, and she laughs. They lie there for a bit, entangled, while he tries to remember how his body parts work.

Pip hooks a finger in the chain and tugs gently, to get his attention. “What was that, at the end there?”

“Hm?”

“Right before you came you started to say something and then you looked kind of freaked out and stopped,” she explains. Props herself up on an elbow and looks at him, draws her fingertips aimlessly over the part of his chest exposed by his undone button. He casts back into the haze, and — oh. Well. “I’m, something. What were you gonna say?” she asks, curiously (and it’s not like he can blame her, he’s never exactly made a point to censor himself). “You’re what?”

Momentarily, Lin considers brushing it off, claiming not to remember, but — why should he, really. She’s here. They’re good. Clears his throat, looks up at her. “Uh, yours,” he confesses. And he’s actually blushing, his face warm, what the hell.

He’s kind of expecting her to give him shit; what he’s not expecting is for her to kiss him with all the fierceness from earlier, hard and searing. “That’s fucking right,” she says, all faux-prim, thumbs a smudge of her lipstick off his chin.

 

 

  
  
A little later, they’re on the couch and Pippa’s rolling them a joint to share, tiny crease between her brows. In her panties and one of his t-shirts, cover of a De La Soul album that’s at least as old as she is. It hits him again, the _oh_ moment — the New Year’s moment, or maybe a half-strength echo of what that had been. Still. He must be staring because she looks up and says, “What?” Self-conscious.

“Nothing, I was just — nothing. Thinking that this is gonna go down as one of my better Valentine’s days.”

“Well, aren’t you easily satisfied. Remind me of that next year,” she says. Kisses his cheek, and reaches past him for the lighter.

 

 

 

**Author's Note:**

> this was made possible via a generous donation to RAINN. title from "Room in Here" by Anderson Paak. Chris and Kate, by the way, are MSNBC pundit (and actual high school friend of Lin's) Chris Hayes and his wife, Kate Shaw. 
> 
> I missed these nerds. y'all know where I'm at, come hang out.


End file.
